Page 4 of Auctioned to the Convicts
“That port is the only way in or out, and no one gains entry that The Company doesn’t want here.” Bixby wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. “One of these days they’ll get around to changing the official designation to Level 5. The rest of the planet is like this except without a water filtration plant. That’s north of here, by the main river. That’s your first lesson, Raines. Don’t drink the water unless it’s bottled or comes from an official water line. Toxins in the water. The local trees and plants filter out the toxins, but we can’t.”
Noted.
“Just do your job and obey the rules, and you’ll be fine. The Level 4s here don’t want to screw up their chances of earning their way off this mud-pit of a planet.”
Except she was Level 5 and Level 5s didn’t advance. Life sentence on Narkos.
* * *
Hannah spent halfthe day isolated in a holding cell in the security building, without any explanation. They fed her and let her use the facilities. At least the guards here seemed decent. She took that as a sign that they didn’t have much trouble from the prisoners here. For the first time in days, Hannah felt hopeful.
“Let’s go, Raines,” Wallace said. Grabbing her by her arm, he led her out of the building into the mid-day sun. He dug his fingers into her arm for no reason. She had to amend her earlier thought. Bixby was decent enough, but Wallace was an asshole.
The din of men’s voices reached her before she and Wallace rounded the corner. A section of the jungle had been cleared of trees and vegetation to house the gathering of what appeared to be hundreds of men, prisoners. With blasters at their sides, a handful of guards lined the perimeter. For the most part, the gathering looked like Company workers at the beginning of the workday, assembling to hear the day’s announcements from the plant or facility manager.
As for the men here, the prisoners, there was no differentiating their jobs by uniform as back on Argus. They wore assorted clothes of all styles and colors. Only the guards wore uniforms. It was rather un-Company like and surprising, but then again, she hadn’t exactly been briefed on what to expect in a prison colony, other than her obligation to join a unit and work.
Several of the prisoners from her shuttle stood in the group of men closest to the dais. Gray Eyes wasn’t among them. Hannah stood on her toes, hoping to see farther into the throng of prisoners. She spotted a few women—only four in a crowd of at least six or seven hundred men—and each was surrounded by four men. Units of five then. That answered that.
A numbness overtook her again at the thought of having to sleep with men she didn’t know, of having no choice in the matter. Would the colony manager give her time to get to know some of the men before she picked? She hoped so. She’d heard stories of women being forced to pick without ever talking to their men. From the drawn faces on the women here, that looked like a real possibility.
A man in his late forties with streaks of silver in his hair and wearing the same uniform as the guards, except his was dark green, climbed the dais, a wooden platform only three feet above the mud. The instant he held up a hand, the crowd fell silent.
“For those of you who are new here, I’m Dresden, Manager of this colony. The rules are simple. I have full authority over you. Your life is mine, colonists.”
Colonists? The latest euphemism for Company employees who have fallen from grace, no doubt.
“Each of you will be assigned a job. In most cases, your job is aligned with your previous occupation or talents. Regardless of your assignment, MAKE YOUR QUOTA.” Dresden’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the crowd. “That is the one rule you WILL NOT break. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Manager!” the sea of men replied as if they were a regiment.
Except they were a ragtag bunch of ruffians sent to a Level 4 planet which meant ten years’ servitude to ascend to Level 3 and return home. Ten years versus a lifetime here, the lucky bastards.
“Rule number two,” Dresden continued. “Don’t make trouble. If you do, I’ll take your greatest asset away and give it to those who abide by my rules.
“Rule three, and this will be a new concept to those of you who are from joint venture worlds and weren’t raised on Argus. When you enter or form a unit, you will be held responsible for the actions of the others in your unit. If they don’t make quota, then you make it for them or you all suffer. If you do not like being responsible for others and are unwilling to ensure they adhere to the rules, then do not join a unit. Stay a solitary. Solitaries are both safer and more vulnerable. If you register as a unit, then it is permanent, for as long as you are part of this colony. Only by leaving Narkos are you officially relieved of your unit ties. Choose wisely. Know who you are choosing; your life depends on it.”
Hannah surveyed the hundreds of men—men whose eyes were all on her. Her knees were already shaking, but meeting their gaze, not knowing which ones she’d have to commit to, was terrifying. When would she get to start meeting them? How long before she’d have to choose? There were so many. What if they only gave her a month or a week?
“Just to clarify,” Dresden continued, “you are responsible for what the others in your unit do. Their misdeeds are your misdeeds. And above all else, if you get into a squabble with other colonists, resolve it by yourselves. Don’t come running to the guards or me. You don’t want us to get involved, because you won’t like how we resolve disputes.”
Chapter Two
SERSIE
Sersie Campós remained in the back of the clearing, eager to leave. This had to be the hundredth time he’d reported to an orientation for new arrivals, and the routine never changed. Dresden and his little speech never changed. Every time Sersie was here, forced to spend time among his fellowcolonists, he left more thankful than ever that he was a solitary.
Narkos got the worst of The Company’s troublemakers. He didn’t care if the majority were Level 4 with only a handful of Level 5s among them. The 4s were just as bad. Rotten, selfish, stupid men, all of them.
As long as Dresden and hiscolonistsleft Sersie to his plants and his lab, he was fine with doing his work, making his quota. These forced interactions were an utter waste of time. He had an experiment to get back to. If he didn’t return before the elgen leaves thawed, the specimen and weeks of work would be ruined. The Company didn’t accept excuses when it came to missing quotas.
“Today we have a special treat for you,” Dresden’s voice boomed through the clearing. “For four of you, anyway. A woman for auction to a unit of four. Four males are required, so if you’re in a unit of two or three and want to bid, find solitaries to complete your unit first. Bidding starts in a few minutes.”
Someone to his right elbowed him in the arm. “We need a fourth. How about you, Sersie?”
Farber, Thessle, and Oni. Three gruff miners who had each other’s backs, but that was the only positive thing Sersie could say about them. The Company recognized that some men were more productive, more stable, as solitaries, while others thrived in a unit. That was Company-speak for some men needed the guidance of other men—pressure to conform—or they caused trouble. That described Farber, Thessle, and Oni perfectly.
Men formed a unit to cover one another’s work quota when sick or to have another guard them in their sleep against thieves or sexual predators. Women weren’t the only ones vulnerable on Narkos, they were merely the most vulnerable. Solitaries, which meant males—women were always auctioned to a unit—could be just as vulnerable, if they didn’t know how to protect themselves. It’s why Sersie slept with an alarm on his door and a paralyzing agent at his fingertips. He’d traded some of his spray with Ren in exchange for the door alarm.
